JOY LINDSAY: I said, "Nikki, girl, where have you been?"

She gave me this look that said, "You don't want to know where I've been."

GERARD QUINTANAR: I'm stunned.

Even when you think you know what's coming, it hits different when a doctor says it.

LEE-ELLEN MARVIN: There's something wrong with the steering in my car.

I can't quite get it in control.

What do you do when your wheel falls off your car?

WES HAZARD: Tonight's theme is "Suddenly."

♪ ♪ Sometimes, life spins us completely around without any warning whatsoever.

A sudden illness brings us face to face with our mortality.

A natural disaster erases everything we thought was certain.

A new relationship shines a light on us that we could have never hoped to have seen otherwise.

Tonight, our amazing group of tellers are going to share their stories of unexpected turns and split decisions that forever separate life into a before and after.

♪ ♪ LINDSAY: I'm Joy Lindsay.

I am originally from Gary, Indiana, and I am a writer, an educator, and a social entrepreneur.

So, I'm so curious, what exactly is a social entrepreneur?

Yeah, a social entrepreneur is an entrepreneur who wants to make a social impact.

And so for me, what that looks like is, I am the founder of a nonprofit called Butterfly Dreamz.

It is based in Gary, Indiana, and Newark, New Jersey.

And our mission is to equip girls to be confident leaders and support them in achieving their dreams.

And we do that through mentorship, holistic leadership development, and intergenerational community action.

And what advice would you have, generally, for any young black girls who happen to be watching the program tonight?

Everything you need is inside of you.

You're here in this world for a purpose.

And to listen to that inner voice that guides you and tells you what direction to go.

And don't let anyone stop you from, from achieving your dreams.

You know what it is you're supposed to do with the skills that you have.

And so believe in yourself and know that you're here for a reason and a purpose.

♪ ♪ Whenever I move to a new city, I like to find a church home.

This started when I first moved from Gary, Indiana, my hometown, to Washington, D.C., to attend school at Howard University.

So, as a first-year student, I lived in a dorm.

And on Sunday nights, whenever I would walk outside of the dorm, there would be about two to three charter buses lined up outside the dorm.

And they were from a local church.

And people from that church would be standing outside of the buses, and they would invite us students to come to Sunday evening service and Sunday dinner.

And I remember the first time I got one of those invites.

I thought to myself, "Man, they really know their target audience."

That as college students who may have stayed out a little late on Saturday night, we weren't always in the best position to go to church on Sunday morning.

But, Sunday night?

Like, that was a good time.

And then, they fed us, too.

And I'm not talking about, like, some frozen food that they heated up or something that you would eat if you visited me at my apartment.

(laughs) But, like, no, like, real authentic soul food that your mama, your daddy, your auntie and them would be in the kitchen pouring love into.

And so, we would get to the church, we would go down to the basement, and then we would eat really good, and then we would come up for praise and worship, and the gospel music would be amazing.

And then, it would always be a powerful sermon and word.

And the other thing I really loved about these Sunday nights, is that it was a sense of community, particularly with young adults.

So, it wasn't just Howard students, but they also invited students from other schools in the area there.

And I had a church friend, Nikki, who attended one of the other schools.

And I called Nikki my church friend because we didn't really hang out outside of church at all.

Like, I didn't have her number.

We didn't talk on the phone.

But at church, on those Sunday nights, that was my girl.

So, I always sat in the right section, in the third row um, in the sanctuary, and she always sat in that same section in the second row, so right in front of me.

And so, when we.... before the service, we would talk, catch up about life.

And then after service, we talk about the word, what we got out of it.

And I remember one Sunday, Nikki wasn't there.

I didn't think too much about it.

Then a second Sunday passed, again no Nikki.

Third Sunday... And then, I didn't really realize how long she had been gone until she returned back into the second row.

And that's when it hit me, that it had been several weeks since I'd seen her.

So, when she came back to her seat, I said, "Nikki, girl, where have you been?"

And when I asked her that question, I could sense that something inside of her shifted.

She gave me this look that said, "You don't want to know where I've been."

Wherever Nikki had been those last few weeks, she didn't want to talk about it, or even think about it.

Now, at that time, I was so young, and there wasn't too much in my life that I didn't want to talk about or think about.

I was like 18, 19 years old, and so much of life hadn't happened to me yet.

This was before I lost my younger sister, Kimberly, and my younger brother, Darnell, to gun violence.

This was before the death of my daughter, Evelyn Anyce LeBron.

This is before I knew what depression really felt like or what it was like to try to manage everyday life with deep heartbreak.

About a year ago, I moved to Boston from Newark, New Jersey, and a few months in, my spirit led me to a historically Black church in the South End of Boston called Union United Methodist Church, which is my current church home.

And, y'all, I love my church.

It has been such a beautiful gift to me, such a blessing, and such an important part of my healing journey.

So usually I like to go, if not every Sunday, at least three out of four Sundays in a month.

However, as this past spring, as the season started to change and work piled up on top of school deadlines, on top of physical and mental health challenges, it became harder and harder for me to make it out of bed, and out of the dark places of my mind, and to church on Sundays.

And so, first one Sunday passed, and then another Sunday and another Sunday.

And then Easter was coming up, and, "I'm like, all right, God."

I made a promise to myself and to God, I'm going to be in church on Easter Sunday.

So, sure enough, on Easter Sunday, I made it to Union.

And when I walked through those big red church doors into the sanctuary... (exhales) my soul felt at home, and at peace Now, y'all, I made it, but I was late.

I was real late, I was, like, 15, 20 minutes late.

And apparently a lot of people had on their spirit to come to church on Easter Sunday.

And so the place was packed.

Like, it was the most packed I ever seen it.

So I was in, like, the way, way back.

But that was okay.

The service was beautiful.

And at one point in the service, I felt a tap on my shoulder.

And when I turned around, it was my church friend, Solomon.

And when Solomon saw me, he had the biggest smile on his face, and he said, "Joy, it's so good to see you."

He gave me this big hug, and, y'all, I felt so loved and so relieved.

And I think the reason I felt so loved and so relieved is because when Solomon saw me, he didn't lead with curiosity or concern.

He wasn't like, "Joy, where you been these last few weeks?"

Or he didn't ask me to think about the dark places that had kept me away for the few weeks I was gone.

No, Solomon simply said, "Joy, it's good to see you."

And my heart replied, "It's good to be seen."

Thank you.

(cheers and applause) ♪ ♪ MARVIN: My name is Lee-Ellen Marvin.

I live in Ithaca, New York, in a tiny cohousing village.

And now that I'm retired, I'm focusing a lot on telling stories, from folktales, mythologies, histories, to personal experience.

One of the most important tenets of storytelling is show, don't tell.

How do you go about incorporating specifics into the stories that you share?

I spend a lot of time thinking about the images.

I sit back and go, "What's the 360-degree view of this moment in time?"

What does it sound like?

What does it smell like?

What's the movement involved?

And I create that world in my mind, and from that, start to narrate what happens.

I'm curious, tonight, when the audience hears your story, what would you most hope that they walk away with after they've heard it?

Sometimes things happen to us, and they help us come together as a community, as even, sometimes, a world.

And those, those are precious times.

And I never want anyone to experience harm through a crisis.

But I always hope that if a crisis does hit, we can find a way to reach out to each other.

♪ ♪ I'm trying to come to terms with the fact that California is a different country, a different culture.

You just get thrown off-guard because you can mostly speak English there.

(laughter) It's October 1989.

I'm stepping out of my classroom at San Jose State University, where I've been teaching for about 16 months.

But I can't connect with my students.

They're lovely, they're sunny, they're cheerful.

They, they come forward with every assignment, undaunted.

(sighs) But I can't connect with them, at least not yet.

And here's the campus, it's lush and green.

There are flowers blooming.

That is just wrong.

I get into my old, beat-up Toyota Starlet.

Now, that car has been through many Boston winters.

It knows a winter.

And I get on the highway.

It is 5:00 and there should be a ton of traffic.

But it's the third game of the World Series being played at Candlestick Park in San Francisco, 50 miles to the north, and the roads are empty.

I've got the highway to myself.

I'm listening to All Things Considered, and there's, there's... there's something wrong with the steering in my car.

There's some...

I can't quite get it in control.

A cartoon image comes to my brain.

There's the car with a big smiley face.

There's a wheel with a little smiley face.

And the two of them are bopping along, but the wheel is slowly inching off the axle, and they don't know.

What do you do when your wheel falls off your car?

I have no idea.

All I can think of is driving in Boston winters.

So, I slowly pump on the brakes, slowly bring the car to a stop, pull over on the shoulder.

(exhales) I step out.

I am so glad to have my feet on solid earth.

And I look at my wheels... there's nothing wrong with them.

No flats.

The wheels are sturdy.

What was that?

I get back in the car.

I ease onto the road.

I'm slowly gaining speed.

And now I notice there's a woman.

She's checking the wheels of her car.

There's a man, he's checking the wheels of his car.

Now, we can't all be losing our wheels at the same time.

(laughing) I roll down the window and I slow down, and I say to the woman, "Hey, hey, do you think we just felt an earthquake?"

And she says, "Yeah, it was an earthquake."

And she laughs, and I laugh.

And I start to speed up the car again.

There's no All Things Considered coming out of my radio.

I hit scan, and that red needle goes up and down the dial.

But there's no radio stations on the air anywhere.

The big Jersey barriers by the side of road, they're all beat up.

Now my heart is starting to really beat hard and my breath is shallow.

So I think I'm not quite ready to drive over the coastal range to get to Santa Cruz, where I live.

So I take the next ramp and I pull into a restaurant, and all the people who should be in the restaurant are out in the parking lot, talking to each other very excitedly.

There are two men leaning against a car right near me.

So I say, "Hey, was that a big earthquake?"

"Oh yeah, that was a big one.

"I mean, I've lived here my whole life.

I've never felt an earthquake that big."

Well, he describes to me how all the dishes, and the plates and the pots and pans came flying off the shelves.

How a chandelier crashed down.

People rushed for the door and dove under the tables to keep themselves safe.

(exhales) I have been through a big earthquake, and I don't know if I have a house still standing.

I don't know if I should be in California at all.

So, I get back on the road.

Now, I'm approaching Killer 17.

This is where the highway goes up over the coastal range.

And it's steep, the lanes are narrow, and the curves are tight.

Those Californians, they love to take that fast, but we can't take it fast today because there are landslides and boulders and depressions in the paving.

We have to go really slowly.

And finally I get to the top of the mountain pass and that's when the radio comes back on.

"Well, Bob, that was quite an earthquake."

"Oh, yes, I've lived here my whole life.

I've never felt an earthquake that big."

The guys, they're the sports announcers at Candlestick Park.

"The players are still out on the field, "not sure what they should do.

"And the fans are making their way "slowly and orderly to the exits.

"This just in.

"That was a 6.7 on the Richter scale "and the epicenter is 50 miles south of San Francisco on the coastal mountain range."

(laughter) I am 50 miles south of San Francisco on the coastal mountain range.

So I make my way home.

I see right away there is a water leak.

So I turn off the water, I turn off the gas, just to be safe, and step into the house.

It is dusk, so I can just see what's going on.

Every book in the house is on the floor.

Every wall has cracks in it, and the house is creaking and moaning like an old boat on a rough sea.

I thought the earthquake was over, but it is not.

Not yet, because there are aftershocks.

The next two days, we finally get electricity, and that's when we learn that the Bay Bridge broke, that historic buildings in downtown Santa Cruz are condemned, and 25,000 people are living outside because their houses aren't safe.

Two weeks later, I walk back into my classroom at San Jose State.

Now I look at my students.

Where have they been?

What have they gone through?

We circle up our chairs, and we tell stories for 45 minutes.

They have such amazing stories to tell me.

And as I look at them, I still see that sunny, cheerful thing.

But when you live in a state that will throw droughts, floods, fires, earthquakes... when you have to deal with all of that, the best thing you can do is come at it with some sunshine and some good cheer.

It's resilience.

And I finally feel connected to my students.

Right at the end of class, one of my students looks up and says, "Hey, have you felt an aftershock today?"

And we all considered the day, and we all burst into smiles, and we laugh and we say, "Not yet."

(laughter) Thank you.

(cheers and applause) ♪ ♪ QUINTANAR: I am Gerard Quintanar.

I live in Boston, I'm a retired engineer.

I grew up in the mountains of New Mexico.

And, uh, and then spent 20 years in San Diego.

For you, what role did storytelling play in your upbringing?

So, stories were a pretty significant part of my upbringing.

My, my parents, my, my grandmothers would tell stories about when they were growing up and the things that they would relay that would be passed down from previous generations as well.

My grandmothers didn't speak English, and so to listen to them and receive their stories was really the only way they could pass down that type of information to us And they're stories I still remember.

And I'm so curious, is tonight, is this your first time sharing a story on stage in this manner?

This is my first time sharing a story, in this way.

And by comparison, I would say presenting material that is much more objective, and technical and so on, although it can be challenging, is not personal, and so it takes on a different dimension.

And I'm really looking forward to this.

♪ ♪ It's 2009.

I'm getting my regular haircut, and I notice my right eyelid is drooping.

I'm 47 years old, a father to two young children, husband to a stay-at-home mom, and a director of a large engineering firm.

Life is busy, but good.

But as I look at my reflection, I know this drooping eyelid could be the sign of a rare progressive disease that runs in my family.

Maybe I'm just tired, I think, and I try to ignore it.

But over the next few weeks, it doesn't go away.

I know there's a test for the disease because my father was tested years before.

So I talk to my doctor, who orders a kit.

Six vials of blood are drawn and sent off to a lab.

And he gives me a call at work a couple of weeks later on a busy Tuesday afternoon.

"Hi, Gerard.

"Just want you to know "I have your test results.

You may want to come in."

With that, I pretty much know the answer.

And when I get to his office, he confirms it.

Positive.

I'm stunned.

Even when you think you know what's coming, it hits different when a doctor says it.

"You have oculopharyngeal muscular dystrophy," he says.

He admits he doesn't know much about the disease because it's so rare.

It affects about one in 100,000 people worldwide.

There is no cure.

And I know this drooping eyelid is the least worrisome of the symptoms I'll have to deal with.

I go home and have dinner with my family.

I read books to my kids as they fall asleep, and I go downstairs and tell my wife the news.

She's an engineer as well, so we keep the discussion fairly high level and pragmatic.

And after a little while, we agree that we should probably just sleep on it.

Well, I don't sleep that much that night.

I lay awake mulling over what this diagnosis will mean for my family, and for me.

I get up in the gray light of dawn, and I look through my bureau for an envelope that contains my father's test results.

I find it, and put it in my computer bag, and I get dressed, thinking work will be a good distraction.

Around lunchtime, I go to the cafeteria where several entrees are being offered.

I opt for Chinese food.

I place my order to go, and I grab a fortune cookie from a large wicker basket on my way out.

Eating my lunch in the solitude of my office, I remove the envelope from my computer bag, and I unfold the papers with my father's results.

I place my results next to his.

The numerical markers that indicate the severity of the mutations are identical.

I glance over at the fortune cookie sitting on my desk and back at the results.

Now, I've always thought of fortune cookies as a novelty, nothing to be taken seriously.

But today, I really want to know what that fortune says.

(laughter) So, I unwrap the cookie and crack it open.

Empty.

(audience groans) The cookie is empty.

In all my years of eating Chinese food, I have never... (audience laughs) encountered an empty fortune cookie.

And today, it just seems like a bad sign.

What a week I'm having.

I close my eyes, and I slump down in my chair.

I'm exhausted, and this diagnosis is just a new form of stress.

Now, for years, I practiced techniques for managing stress and maintaining a positive state of mind.

This could be an excellent opportunity to put those techniques to work.

So, I slowly open my eyes, and I look at the cookie pieces, and I try to imagine how this empty fortune cookie could be the sign of something good.

And slowly, thoughts of gratitude start coming to mind.

How fortunate am I to get my diagnosis at my age, right at the onset of symptoms?

How fortunate am I to be able to place my results next to my dad's and seeing that they're identical?

I know everything he went through from when he was my age to when he passed away from the disease.

How many people get a preview of what is most likely to come?

It's scary, but it's also a gift.

And right then, I decide to make the most of the time I have left.

I push the pieces of cookie aside, and I take out a blank sheet of paper.

And with scissors, I cut out small fortune-size pieces.

And I commit to start each day by writing my own fortune.

Now, these aren't fortunes that are grandiose, nor are they trivial.

But I try to make them predictive of something good that may happen on that specific day.

And on many days, they come true.

But that's not actually the point.

The point is, I believe they are more likely to come true because I write them with intention and hope.

Some say, "You will find a funny story to bring home to your family tonight."

Or, "You will inspire a young leader who has taken on a challenging role."

When the call for storytellers went out, I wrote myself a fortune that I would be selected to stand on this stage and tell you this story tonight.

So today, the fortune is for you and I alike.

It simply reads, "You will write your own fortune today."

Thank you.

(cheers and applause) ♪ ♪